c\ 


IRISH    ECLOGUES 


IRISH    ECLOGUES 

BY  EDWARD  E.  LYSAGHT 


NEW    YORK 

BRENTANO'S 
1920 


Printed  in  Ireland 


J2EAUTY  I  meet  with  everywhere  : 

A  rounded  bosom  partly  bare, 
A  maiden's  errant  lock  of  hair 
Tossed  in  the  balmy  southern  air, 
Eyes  of  violet  deep  as  rare, 
Eyes  that  challenge  the  bold  to  dare, 
Beauty  that  needs  no  craftsman's  care  ; 
But  none  I  see  that  is  half  so  fair 
As  the  girl  at  home  who  is  pleaged  to  share 
My  life  with  me. 

Her  beauty  is  not  for  all  to  see 
Like  a  rainbow's  obvious  brilliancy, 
It  is  traced  with  a  delicate  subtlety 
For  I  do  not  find  a  treasury 
Of  perfect  features,  perfectly 


20G1419 


DEDICATION 

Planned  with  a  sculptor  s  symmetry^ 
But  a  face  that  is  full  of  energy^ 
Tef  soft  like  an  old  time  melody 
In  the  haunting  Celtic  minor  key 
And  an  eye  suffused  with  a  sympathy 
That  blends  the  whole  into  harmony ', 
^  our  arms  entwined^  she  looks  at  me 
In  the  firelight  glow. 

Marseilles,  1913. 


CONTENTS 

I    HEARD  A  LONE  CALF   CALLING  9 
A  RECOLLECTION  OF  A  COLD  WET  NIGHT  IN  1909        II 

CAITILIN'S  FIELD  16 

THE  MARCH  FAIR  2O 

THE  JOY  OF  PERMANENCE  24 

THE  RIVER  MEADOW  26 

PALES  AND  CERES  28 

SOME  OF  MY  WORKMEN  3O 

THE  GREY  HORSE  38 

THE   ASS  39 

THE   SHEEP    DOG  40 

TO    MY    DOG  41 

LOUGH  DERG  43 

DO  YOU  NEVER  WANT  TO  BE  ALONE  54 

A  DROWSY  WINTER'S  DAY  55 

FURZE  57 

^stufin  59 

FOOTNOTE  62 

vii 


I  HEARD  A  LONE  CALF 
CALLING 

I  HEARD  a  lone  calf  calling 
Plaintively,  drearily,  for  the  mother  it 

had  lost. 
I  stood  and  watched  the  hungry  cows  around 

me 

Picking  the  scanty  grass  of  early  March. 
I  leant  awhile  upon  the  four-pronged  fork 
The  day's  work  chanced  to  make  my  tool, 
And  as  I  stood  and  gave  my  thoughts  their 

liberty 

They  came  upon  a  way  yet  unexplored. 
Ah  !   many  a  day  I'd  worked  and  stood 
Where  I  now  idled  a  brief  spell, 
But  never  seen  the  beauty  of  the  life  I  led, 
Or  felt  how  much  the  life  of  every  day  could 

show 

To  one  who  cared  to  read. 

9 


I  HEARD  A  LONE  CALF  CALLING 

'Twas  like  the  sudden  glorious  discovery 
A    man    makes   when   he   finds   he   loves    a 

woman  ; 

Her  features  which  he  saw  and  knew  before 
Change    wondrously,    as     by    some    weird 

enchantment  of  the  gods. 
And  as  I  went  on  working  till  the  twilight 

came 
My  brain,  awakened  in  its  gladness,  wildly 

sped  its  way 
In  mad  and  formless  song. 


10 


A  RECOLLECTION  OF  A  COLD 
WET  NIGHT  IN   1909 

MY  smoky  lantern  throws  its  flickering 
ray 
Now  on  the  cobbles,  now  upon  the 

walls  ; 

I  hear  the  log  chains  rattling  in  the  stalls, 
I  hear  the  chestnut  whinnying  to  the  grey  ; 
Below  the  gate  the  fragrant  scent  of  hay, 
Saved  on  a  pleasant  summer's  day, 
Despite  the  cold  raw  wind  and  sleet  recalls 
My  shivering  mind  to  thoughts  of  summer 

zephyrs. 

There  in  the  lower  yard  the  thirty  heifers, 
The  calves  we  knew  last  year, 
Sleek-coated,  placid,  mild-faced  animals, 
Warm  bedded,  care  not  whether  snow  flake 

falls 

ii 


A  COLD  WET  NIGHT   IN    1909 

Or  midnight  skies  are  clear, 

But  in  one  long  unceasing  chorus, 

A  duotone  sonorous, 

They    munch    and    champ,   and    chew   the 

fragrant  fodder. 

Their  calm  contentment  throws  on  me  a  spell, 
Their    peaceful    mood    floods    me — and   all 

seems  well. 

A  minute  since  the  cold  incessant  rain 
Beating  in  gusts  against  my  lonely  shutter, 
The    big    bleak    empty    barrack's    ghostly 

sounds, 

The  icy  draughts  that  made  my  candle  gutter, 
The  four  bare  walls  that  were  the  gloomy 

bounds 

Of  my  inhabited  domain, 
The  narrow  bed  with  blankets  still  untended, 
The  nail  where  hung  the  rags  that  no  one 

mended, 

12 


A  COLD  WET    NIGHT    IN    1909 

Had  filled  my  heart  with  something  near  to 

pain. 

I  thought  with  longing  of  the  idle  days 
I  spent  at  college,  of  the  cheery  room 
Where  to  sit  single  brought  no  lonely  gloom 
Upon  the  brain, 

Remembered  enviously  the  jovial  friends 
Who  came  to  share  a  glass,  a  rowdy  song, 
And  went  their  ways 
Without  a  care,  a  harum-scarum  throng — 

But  now  the  sounds  and  smells  around  me 

From  my  obsession  have  unbound- me, 

No  more  a  prey  to  dull  misgiving 

I  feel  again  the  joy  of  living, 

Though  by  the  storm  my  sense  is  staggered, 

Though  I  have  felt  forlorn  and  friendless 

Drifting  upon  an  ocean  endless, 

A  single  old  familiar  greeting 

Can  send  my  morbid  fancies  fleeting. 

13 


A  COLD  WET  NIGHT   IN    1909 

A  single  perfume  from  the  haggard, 
The  subtle  scent  of  sheltered  cattle, 
A  startled  rooster's  tittle-tattle, 
The  champ  of  horses  in  the  stable, 
The  windcock  creaking  on  the  gable, 
Even  a  new  calved  heifer's  moan, 
Her  plaintive  yearning  monotone, 
Makes  me  feel  less  alone. 


Oh,  ye  Poets  who  have  sung 

Praises  of  our  country  life, 

When  ye  hymned  your  tuneful  words 

What  knew  ye  of  midnight  work  ; 

Of  the  cares  that  daily  lurk 

Round  a  farmer's  flocks  and  herds  ; 

Had  ye  ever  used  the  knife 

While  a  life  in  balance  hung  ; 

Had  ye  ever  left  your  beds 

To  tend  a  suffering  horse's  colic  : 


A  COLD  WET   NIGHT  IN    1909 

Had  ye  sat  all  night  and  shivered 
Till  a  heifer  was  delivered 
Of  a  stubborn  first  born  calf  ? 
Farmers  cannot  always  laugh, 
Life  is  not  all  fun  and  frolic, 
Poetry  her  fancy  sheds 
On  reality  bucolic. 

Yet  for  all  your  ignorance 
Ye  have  sung  the  truth  by  chance. 
Though  the  seasons  may  not  favour, 
Though  the  cows  are  short  of  milk, 
Though  disease  attack  my  fold 
And  my  bullocks  are  unsold, 
Though  my  farm's  remote  and  far 
From  the  towns  where  pleasures  are, 
Though  I  go  not  clothed  in  silk 
Yet  my  fealty  will  not  waver  ; 
I  still  find  the  world's  romance 
Here  in  my  inheritance. 

15 


CAITILIN'S  FIELD 

I    SING  the  song  of  the  man  who  has 
sweated  and  toiled 

All  day  at  the  saving  of  hay  and  the 
making  of  tramps  * 

On  a  day  when  his  work  is  well  spent,  and 
the  crop  is  not  spoiled 

By  the  rain  that  he  damns. 

When  the  dew  has  gone  off  of  the  ground, 

and  the  heat  of  the  sun 
Is  very  near  able  to  melt  the  prong  of  his 

fork, 
When  already  the  small  little  breeze  the  task 

has  begun, 

Then  man  sets  to  work. 

*  Local  word  for  wynds  or  tramp-cocks,  pronounced 
tram. 

16 


CAITILIN'S    FIELD 

Five  acres  of  good  meadow  hay  is  in  Caitilin's 

field, 
In  windrows  we  have  it  made  up,  'twill  not 

rain,  we've  no  fear, 
'Tis  only  the  fools  who  make  cocks  when 

the  clouds  are  concealed 
And  the  sky  is  all  clear. 

Ten   men   there    are   with    me    as   well    as 

myself,  and  a  boy 
To  ride  on  the  horse  that  draws  in  the  hay 

from  the  rows  ; 
We'll   easily  tramp  it  by  night,   and  we'll 

count  it  a  joy 

To  do  it,  God  knows. 

Three  tramps  are  kept  going  at  once,  for  the 

meadow  is  flat 
And  the  skeeter  works  smoothly,  and  quickly 

its  loads  are  upturned, 

17  B 


CAITILIN'S    FIELD 

Till  the  sweat  runs  off  us  in  streams,  and 
the  man  that  is  fat 

His  wage  will  have  earned. 


There's  skill  in  the  work,  for  it  isn't  mere 

ignorant  labouring 
To  build  up  a  tramp  while  two  men   are 

forking  their  best, 
And  not  have  it  turn  when  its  made,  to  be 

for  the  neighbouring 
Farmers  a  jest. 

There's  skill  in  the  skeeting,  there's  skill  in 

the  pulling,  there's  skill 
In  the  way  that  the  hay  is  forked  off  of 

the  ground,  for  you'll  see 
When  a  man  comes  out  of  a  town,  though 
he  work  with  a  will, 
What  a  fool  he  does  be. 
18 


CAITILIN'S    FIELD 

Tired  we  may  be  when  at  night  we  have 

forked  the  last  sop, 
The  last  sugan  is  tied,  and  we  put  on  our 

coats  to  go  home, 
But    we   wouldn't    change    place   with    the 

King  in  his  Parliament  shop, 
Or  the  Pope  that's  in  Rome. 

For  what  do  the  dwellers  in  palaces  know 

of  the  feel 
Of  the  arm  that  is  wearied  with  work,  yet 

ready  for  more, 
Or   the  appetite   simple   and    keen    a    man 

brings  to  the  meal 

His  house  has  in  store  ? 


THE  MARCH  FAIR 

THREE  o'clock,  and  with  a  start 
I  waken,  cursing  fair  and  mart. 
And  the  bullocks,  if  they  knew, 
Surely  would  be  cursing  too  ; 
Seven  English  miles  have  they, 
Long  before  the  dawn  of  day, 
Seven  English  miles  to  tramp. 

(Where  the  divil  is  the  lamp  ?) 
Bullocks  !     In  your  innocence 
Yours  a  day  of  abstinence. 
It  will  take  two  hours  and  more 
For  us  to  go  to  Killimor. 
Then  when  we're  there  we'll  stand  forlorn 
Like    long   wooled    sheep    that    have    been 
shorn, 

Too  early  in  the  summer. 


20 


THE    MARCH    FAIR 

7Tis  eight  o'clock  and  ne'er  a  bid  : 

What  fools  to  come* — yet  well  we  did, 

For  out  from  yonder  caravan, 

Where  Mrs.  Browne  wields  her  tin-can 

And  serves  cold  herrings,  tea  and  bread 

To  Michael,  Paddy,  Tom  and  Ned, 

There  comes  a  man  who's  slep'  it  out  : 

He's  a  shipper,  there's  no  doubt. 

I  know  him,  sure,  'tis  Johnny  Curtin, 

He'll  buy  our  cattle  now  for  certain. 

I  ask  a  hundred  for  the  ten, 

He  scans  them  slightingly  and  then 

He  turns  away  without  a  word. 

I  wink  my  eye  to  Mick,  the  herd. 

"  Come  here,  I  want  you,  Sir,"  cries  he, 

"  What  is  the  bullocks'  price  to  be  ?  " 

— "They're    not    worth    nine."      But   Jim 

Molony 
(We  all  know  Jim,  the  poor  old  crony) 


21 


THE    MARCH    FAIR 

Puts  in  his  word  without  a  smile  : 
"  I  don't  care  which,  but  wait  awhile 
Ask  nine  fifteen  and  cut  a  crown." 
— "  Is  that  the  way  you'd  beat  me  down  ?  " 
John  strikes  my  hand  and  goes  away. 
And  then  comes  back  again  to  say 
He'll  not  break  Jim  Molony's  word. 
(We  all  say  that,  we're  so  absurd) 
And  so  at  last  the  bargain's  struck  ; 
It's  left  to  me  about  the  luck. 
"  Begob  !  "  says  Mick,  "  for  all  his  tricks 
They're  dear  enough  at  nine  twelve  six." 
So  later  on  when  we've  been  paid, 
We'll  drink  their  health  in  lemonade. 
(The  divil  sweep  those  pledges) 

Herded  with  others,  scores  and  scores, 
Our    bullocks,    mixed    with     cows    and 
stores, 

22 


THE    MARCH    FAIR 

Are  driven  through  the  thronging  fair 
Out  to  the  railway  station,  where 
Numbers  of  trucks,  all  just  the  same, 
Swallow  the  beasts  we  knew  by  name, 
Which  lose  in  leaving  Mick  and  me 
Their  individuality. 
God  !     On  what  venture  ye  embark, 
To  feed  at  length  some  city  clerk 
Whose  widest  world  is  Blackpool. 


23 


THE  JOY  OF  PERMANENCE 

OLD  John  with  his  plough  may  turn 
a  scrape 

As  true  as  the  flight  of  an  arrow, 
But  well  he  knows  that  it  can't  escape 
The  levelling  stroke  of  the  harrow. 

Danny  has  built  a  faultless  rick, 

I  never  saw  one  to  beat  it  ; 

But  his  work  is  not   made  with   stone   or 

brick — 
Later  on  the  cattle  will  eat  it. 

I  have  shaken  oats  from  year  to  year, 

But  at  heart  I  have  laboured  sadly, 

For  it  all  looks  the  same  when  the  fields  are 

clear, 

Though  I  scatter  it  never  so  badly. 

24 


THE  JOY  OF  PERMANENCE 

But  here  is  a  work  that  I  feel  is  worth 

The  full  of  our  human  endeavour, 

For  we're  leaving  our  mark  on  the  face  of 

the  earth, 
A  mark  that  will  stay  for  ever. 

We  are  battling  with  ancient  barren  land, 

Boulders  and  straggling  heather  ; 

We  have  worked  till  the  tan  on  our  arms  is 

tanned 
Double  deep  by  the  cut  of  the  weather. 

Rocks  and  stones  we  have  raised  and  moved 

Till  a  great  wide  wall  has  risen 

Round  the  bounds  of  a  field  that  no   man 

loved 
And  the  goats  used  to  count  a  prison. 

And    now    it    is    levelled    and    limed    and 

ploughed  : 

The  brown  earth  calls  for  the  sower. 
In  six  months  this  will  be  one  of  a  crowd 
When  it  falls  to  the  scythe  of  the  mower. 

25 


THE  RIVER  MEADOW 


G 


RACEFULLY,  steadily,  easily 

Three  men  are  mowing 
Bending  and  rising  they  capture  the 

Rhythm  of  rowing. 


Swish  goes  the  cut  of  the  scythes  as  they 

Glide  all  together 
Through  the  cool  stems  of  the  river  hay 

In  the  hot  weather. 


Then  at  the  end  of  the  swath  comes  the 

Sound  of  the  honing 
Grating  but  ringing  melodiously 

Like  a  bee  droning. 


26 


THE   RIVER   MEADOW 

Morning  and  noon  time  and  evening 

Comes  a  young  maiden 
Porter  and  buttermilk  carrying 

Willingly  laden. 

And  while  they  drink  under  shadowy 

Willows  eternal 
The  meadow  distils  for  them  heavenly 

Scent  of  sweet-vernal.* 

*  It  may  not  be  generally  known  that  sweet-vernal 
is  the  name  of  the  grass  which  gives  the  characteristic 
scent  to  freshly  cut  hay. 


PALES  AND  CERES 

PALES 

I  AM  the  goddess  of  the  Golden  Vale, 
I  rule  the  downs  and  the  fat  plains  of 

Meath, 

And  to  my  devotees  I  can  bequeath 
The  rich  sleek  ox,  the  overflowing  pail, 
The  cool  of  summer  dairies  in  the  dale, 
Where  lies  the  homestead,  girdled  with  a 

wreath 

Of  prying  creepers  groping  underneath 
The  thatch,  the  dingy  beams  within  to  scale. 

And  in  the  luscious  pastures  stand  my  kine, 
Some  suckle  calves,  some  plod  home  to  the 

byre, 

Bullocks  knee  deep  in  pasture  graze  their  fill, 
Or  seek  the  shallows  in  a  careless  line, 
Or  under  shady  branches  lie  quite  still 
Chewing  the  cud  with  jaws  that  never  tire. 

28 


PALES  AND  CERES 

CERES 

HEED     not     O     Eire,    the     specious 
promises 

Of  idle  Pales,  hearken  unto  me, 
I  am  the  queen  of  life  and  energy  ; 
I  check  the  hopeful  exile's  eagerness  ; 
I  keep  the  life  blood  in  my  villages, 
For  when  I  govern  a  community 
There  will  the  pleasant  sound  of  labour  be — 
I  feel  no  pride  in  ranches  tenantless. 

My  beauty  lies  in  sight  of  human  toil, 

In  the  green  corn  when   pastures   still  are 

white, 

Or  in  a  yellowing  cornfield  in  the  breeze, 
In  the  sweet  smell  when  freshly  turns  the  soil, 
In  rows  of  pointed   stooks   at   glimmering 

night, 
Or  thresher's  hum  like  buzz  of  million  bees. 

29 


SOME  OF  MY  WORKMEN 


D 


I— DANNY    COGHLAN 

ANIEL    Coghlan,    down    from    the 

mountains, 
Tough  hardy  Dan,  from  beyant  in  the 

mountains, 

You're  the  best  worksman  I  know. 
Thin  is  your  arm,  sure, 
Yerra,  what  harm,  sure, 
'Tis  you  have  the  go  ! 

You   have    the    knowledge,   you    have    the 

strength,  too  : 

Knowledge  is  great,   but    men    must    have 
strength  too, 

Each  by  itself  is  no  good  ; 
Then  you  are  quick,  Dan, 
Some  men  are  thick,  Dan, 
Thicker  than  wood. 

30 


SOME    OF    MY    WORKMEN 

Keenly  you  work  ;  'tis  hard  to  get  keen  men. 
I  love  to  be  watching  or  working  with  keen 
men, 

Men  who  learnt  labour  at  home. 
You  have  ten  acres,  man, 
Keep  it,  be  Jakers,  man, 
Let  emigrants  roam. 

You  are  the  right  man,  one  I  can  trust  in, 
I  could  never  leave  home  if  I'd  no  one  to 
trust  in 

And  know  that  my  work  will  be  done. 
The  divil  a  loss,  boys, 
While  he  is  your  boss,  boys, 
The  divil  a  one. 

You're  independent,  never  obsequious, 
A  man  of  free  birth  is  never  obsequious, 
He  leaves  it  to  schemer  and  slave. 
If  this  poem  should  live,  lad, 
'Tis  all  I've  to  give,  lad, 
For  all  that  you  gave. 

31 


SOME  OF  MY  WORKMEN 


I 


LOOK  upon  you  as  a  curiosity, 

you  master  of  excuse 

and  wile. 
You   clothe  your   tortuous    scheming   with 

verbosity, 
But  I  confess  you  only  make  me  smile. 


You  are  a  part  of  that  still  puzzling  mystery 
That  English  rule  bequeathed  us  from  the 
past, 

Your  type  is  simply  the  result  of  history, — 
And  into  history  it's  sinking  fast. 


SOME   OF   MY  WORKMEN 

III— JAMESY 

WHEN  there's  a  dirty  job  to  do, 
Or   one    man   has  the     work     of 

two, 

Nobody  ever  questions  who — 
Be  there  many  or  be  there  few  : 
'Tis  Jamesy  Shaughnessy  ! 


When  we  are  loading  posts  of  oak 
Upon  a  high-wheeled  one-horse  yoke 
Who  has  the  heavy  ends  bespoke 
And  lifts  till  his  arms  are  almost  broke 
But  Jamesy  Shaughnessy  ! 

33  c 


SOME   OF    MY    WORKMEN 

Yet  there's  one  man  who's  always  willing 
No  matter  if  he's  in  the  killing 
Of  pigs,  or  maybe  he'll  be  filling 
Dung  carts  all  day,  or  ridges  tilling, 
Though  he  may  not  know  a  crown  from  a 
shilling, 

That's  Jamesy  Shaughnessy  ! 

'Tis  equal  what  or  where  the  place, 
He  always  wants  to  force  the  pace, 
At  digging  spuds  he's  mad  to  race, 
Or  hoeing  :   "  Sure,  'tis  all  a  case," 
Says  Jamesy  Shaughnessy. 

But  then  at  digging  spuds  or  hoeing, 
And  even  binding  sheaves  or  mowing, 
When  you're  too  fond  of  rapid  going 
The  bad  results  will  soon  be  showing, 
O,  Jamesy  Shaughnessy  ! 

34 


SOME    OF    MY    WORKMEN 

His  beard  is  just  a  tangled  mat, 
He  always  wears  an  old  hard  hat, 
And  he  never  stops  to  smoke  or  chat — 
What  can  I  do  with  a  man  like  that, 
Eh,  Jamesy  Shaughnessy  ? 

If  I  give  him  a  job  that's  tasty  or  neat 
Sure,  his  own  gossoon  will  have  him  beat, 
All  he  has  is  muscle  and  bone. 
I  must  send  him  off  and  leave  him  alone 
For  he'll  work  his  best  without  deceit, 
Nor  go  away  till  the  job's  complete, 

What  do  you  say,  Jamesy  ? 
For  I  have  to  get  the  best  that  I  can 
Out  of  every  labouring  man, 
I  don't  care  whether  he's  Jim  or  Dan 

Or  Jamesy  Shaughnessy. 

It  is  only  fair  to  Jamesy  to  say  that  these  verses  were  written 
some  years  ago,  before  I  knew  him  as  well  as  I  do  now.  The 
hard  hat  is  discarded,  the  beard  neatly  trimmed,  and  Jamesy, 
who  has  found  his  true  vocation  as  yardman,  is  now  one  of  my 
most  trusted  and  reliable  men. 

35 


SOME  OF  MY  WORKMEN 

IV— THADY  ANGLIM   (R.  I.  P.) 

THADY,  for  all  your  shaggy  face 
And  halting  crab-like  gait, 
I  must  accord  to  you  a  place 
Among  the  verses  in  this  book  : 

You'll  never  learn  your  fate. 
For  all  your  thoughts,  your  very  look, 
Told  of  a  purpose  undeterred, 
You  had  but  one  delight, 
You  only  wept  when  loss  occurred 
Among  the  members  of  our  herd, 
Now,  we  are  weeping  you,  interred 
For  ever  from  our  sight. 


SOME  OF    MY  WORKMEN 

V— WILLIAM  MORRISSEY 

(1843-1913) 

NO  mighty  warrior  lies  in  that  cold 
grave, 

No  king  who  bears  a  high  illustrious 
name, 

Nor  politician  with  a  transient  fame, 
Nor  even  a  singer  famous  for  his  stave. 
You  were  a  simple  honest  man.     No  knave 
Can  breathe  a  scandal,  find  a  tint  of  shame, 
Nor  for  a  meanness  lay  on  you  the  blame, 
A  simple  servant  always  :    never  a  slave. 

What  can  I  say  of  you  in  greater  praise  ? 
A  simple  honest  man — were  you  here  now 
You  would  not  wish  a  higher  compliment. 
So  when  at  seventy  years  you've  done  your 

days, 

And  to  a  hostile  world  have  made  your  bow, 
I  say  what  I  have  said  before  you  went. 

37 


I  LOVE  the  summer  months  because  I  eat 
The  fresh  green  grass,  because  my  tired 
feet 
Find  soft  moist  standing  in  the  time  of  heat. 


I  love  the  winter,  when  my  rattling  chain 
Binds  me  in  reach  of  hay  and  good  plump 

grain 
And  a  strong  roof  keeps  out  the  wind  and 

rain. 


THE  ASS 

» 

ESJG,  long  ago  I  was  a  foal, 
A  happy,  shaggy  little  foal, 
I  used  to  gallop,  graze  and  roll, 
And  when  I  thought,  I  thought  the  whole 
World  was  a  meadow. 


But  now  I  work  and  pull  a  car, 
A  heavy  overloaded  car  ; 
I  smell  the  meadows  from  afar  : 
But  only  once  a  week  they  are 
More  than  a  shadow. 


39 


THE  SHEEP    DOG 

E^PING  and  barking,  madly  careering, 
Nimbly  avoiding  their  kicks,  I  am 
steering 

The  dairy  cows  home  to  the  byre  ; 
The  sluggish  cows  home. 

Working  the  sheep  is  my  joy  of  existence, 
Rounding  them  into  the  fold  from  a  distance, 
Snapping  the  last  as  he  runs 
Through  the  gate  of  the  pen. 

Trotting  sedately  when  worktime  is  finished 
I  follow  my  master,  my  keenness  diminished, 
Till  I  stretch  myself  out  by  the  fire 
At  the  feet  of  the  men. 


40 


TO   MY  DOG 

OH  what  do  we  care  for  the  boasts  of 
the  shooters 
Who  prate  of  their   bags   and  their 

battues  and  drives, 
Who  ride  to  their  moors  and  their  coverts  in 

motors 
And  chat  while  they  wait  to  other  men's 

wives  ; 
Who  leave  all  the  work  and  the  fun  to  the 

beaters, 
All  thinking  and  craft  to  their  headkeeper's 

brains, 
Who  dream  not  of  duck  but  of  Darracq  two 

seaters, 
Whose  joy   in    the   bag   is    how    much    it 

contains. 


41 


TO  MY  DOG 

Eat  this  bone  for  you've  work  before  you 

to-day  ; 
Now    a    bite    for    me    and     then     we'll 

away. 


LOUGH  DERG 

I 

A  I  push  out  my  boat 
And  carelessly  float 
Down  the  sluggish  stream 
To  the  beds  of  reeds 
And  the  deep  stemmed  weeds 
Where  the  minnows  dream, 

Soon  a  startled  Coot 
With  trailing  foot 
Leaves  a  bubbling  wake, 
As  he  splashes  away 
To  the  bosom  grey 
Of  the  open  lake  ; 

43 


LOUGH    DERG 

And  the  dabchick  strives 
With  his  slippery  dives 
To  escape  unseen  ; 
And  the  divers  swim, 
At  the  water's  rim, 
To  their  rushy  screen. 

The  kittiwakes'  white 
Gives  a  touch  of  light 
To  the  lough's  dull  breast, 
As  they  rise  and  dip, 
Like  a  faery  ship, 
At  the  waves'  behest. 


44 


LOUGH  DERG 

II 

A  CLUMP   of  high   green   reeds   now 
yellowing  in  decay, 
An    island    landless    and    without    a 
shore, 
I  know  of  such  a  hiding  place  in  every  little 

bay 
Where  I  can  check  my  boat's  drift,  where 

she  and  I  can  stay, 
And  I  can  learn  the  lake  bird's  lore. 

First   the   gulls,   the   laughing   gulls,   come 

circling  round  my  head, 
Laughing  they  pitch  on  yonder  rock, 
And  sometimes  with  them  a  tern  uncomraded, 

45 


LOUGH    DERG 

That    child   of   the    breezes    in   some   aery 

kingdom  bred, 
Circles  still,  while  below  the  gulls  mock. 

Small   and   unnoticed   the   dotterel   and  his 

mate 
Come  swinging  and  darting  on  their  skimming 

course, 
They  alight,  but  to  return,  or  if  by  chance 

they  wait 
Rest  never  finds  them,  but  an  evergoading 

fate 

Drives  them  on  with  an  unseen  force. 

* 

With  a  rushing  sound  of  wings, 
Like  a  sudden  breeze 
When  it  strikes  the  tops 
Of  an  ancient  wood, 

A  flock  of  wild  duck  comes, 


LOUGH    DERG 

With  unchecked  speed 

They  swish  through  the  air 

In  a  flashing  curve 
Dropping  upon  the  water's  face 

As  lightly  as  a  mayfly  ; 
There  they  float  and  idly  swim, 

Idly  paddle  in  the  shallows. 
Some  stand  up  and  stretch  a  wing, 
Tired  with  speed  of  journeying, 
One  turns  back  his  head  to  sleep, 
One — but  I  have  made  some  sound- 
They  are  off  and  far  away 
Lost  among  the  misty  grey 
I  can  see  them  flashing  dim 

Making  for  securer  shallows. 


47 


LOUGH  DERG 

III 

THEN     the    swerving     plover,    that 
gossiping  bird 
Who  every  moment   swoops  out  of 

his  course, 

As  if  some  far  away  music  he  heard, 
And  he  wanted  to  trace  the  elusive  charm 
Of  the  phantom  melody  down  to  its  source 
At  the  brim  of  the  water,;nor  comes  to  harm 
As  he  falls  headlong  from  a  dizzy  height, 
And  fluttering  down  his  comrades  follow 
In  a  mass  confused  till  they  reunite 
With  a  tern-like  grace  and  the  ease  of  a 

swallow 

Into  a  disciplined  serried  array, 
One  aimless  purpose  common  to  all  ; 


LOUGH   DERG 

All  instantly  answering  one  common  whim, 
They  wing  their  devious  voyage  away, 
Hastening  still  to  that  unknown  call, 
That  will-o'-the-wisp  at  the  water's  brim 
Which  they  found  not  there,  but  seek  it  now 
Among  the  boulders  or  after  the  plough, 
And  their  wings  flash  white  as  they  wheel  in 

the  sun, 
Or  gambol  and  tumble  in  aery  fun. 


49 


LOUGH  DERG 

IV 

ON  MY  WAY  HOMEWARD  AT 
THE  END  OF  THE  DAY 

A  GENTLE     breeze    that  ^has    timely 
veered 

From  the  west  to  the  east,  and  has 
made  of  the  sky 

An  indigo  vault  of  transparent  hue, 
A  deep-toned  matchless  infinite  blue, 
Is  helping  my  boat,  as  I  lazily  ply 
My   oars   on   the   course   I    have   oft-times 

steered  ; 
But    I   think    tonight    there    is    something 

weird 

In  the  change  of  the  sky  and  the  half-risen 
moon,  -*  < 

50 


LOUGH    DERG 

For  the  curlew's  call  seems  eerier  now 
As,  seeking  his  mates,  he  crosses  my  bow, 
And   the   coots    who    croak   in    the    rushy 

lagoon, 
Where     they     built   their   nests   and    their 

nestlings  reared, 

Or  utter  that  short  sharp  sound  of  their  own 
Like  the  click  of  a  mason  chiselling  stone, 
Make  the  world  that  I  know  seem  aloof  and 

unknown. 

I  come  to  some  rocks  in  the  midst  of  the 

lake 
Where  the  pillibeen  meeks  have  found  their 

rest 

Counting  their  bivouac  safe  from  harm, 
Till  the  sentinel  sounds  the  note  of  alarm, 
And  their  chattering  stops  and  the  ceaseless 

quest 

Once  more  their  winnowing  wings  undertake. 
Should  they  sleep  the  redshank  is  ever  awake; 


LOUGH    DERG 

As   the   watchdog    barks   when    a    stranger 

appears, 

So  his  shrilling  to   tardier  wild  fowl  pro- 
claims 

The  advent  of  man  who  murders  and  maims 
(Whom  every  creature  instinctively  fears, 
And  only  the  dog  will  never  forsake) — 
Though  his  throat  is  slender  and  long  his 

bill 

Those  three  wild  notes  quiver  piercing  shrill, 
To  tell  of  the  enemy  out  to  kill. 


The  stillness  of  night  settles  down  once  morer 
Stiller  now  since  the  silence  was  rent  by  the 

whir 
That   the  wings  of  the  pillibeens  made  as 

they  rose, 

Or  the  rumbling  creak  of  a  cart  as  it  goes 
On  its  homeward  way,  or  a  cottager 

52 


LOUGH    DERG 

Sings  a  snatch  of  song,  on  a  distant  shore, 
And  the  sound  comes  clearly  travelling  o'er 
The  stretch  of  the  tiny  rippling  waves 
And  makes  when  it  ceases  the  stillness  more 

still. 

But  the  quiet  has  ever  a  murmuring  trill, 
The  faintest  of  echoes  from  watery  graves, 
Where  naiads  forgotten  still  whisper   their 

lore, 
Where  the  trout  and  the  red-finned  perch 

evade 
The  grisly  king-pike's  ambuscade 

As  they  glide  through  the  weeds  of  a  limpid 
glade 

Fathoms  down. 


53 


DO  YOU  NEVER  WANT  TO 
BE  ALONE 

DO  you  never  want  to  be  alone 
Away  from  the  octopus — man, 
To  be  at  one  with  the  pine  trees'  moan, 
Where  they  moan  in  monotonous  monotone 
As  they  moaned  when  the  world  began; 
To  don  the  wings  of  the  buzzing  drone  ; 
To  wander  free  with  the  old  god  Pan  ; 
To  ponder  awhile  on  the  wondrous  plan 
That  governs  both  saint  and  courtesan, 
Their  destiny  and  our  own  ? 


54 


A  DROWSY  WINTER'S  DAY 

SOMETIMES     when     on     a     drowsy 
winter's  day 

My  hands   refuse   to  work   and   I   am 
filled 

With  a  mad  wish  to  give  my  senses  play, 
Or  pen  the  words  my  fancy  has  distilled, 
Then,  as  by  chance,  my  steps  will  seek  a 

path, 

Shunning  to  meet  a  single  shepherd's  dog, 
To  some  uncharted  peaceful  solitude. 
For  in  this  ancient  country  many  a  rath 
And  rolling  mountain  and  forsaken  bog 
Offer  to  share  with  me  my  lonely  mood. 

Oh  God  !   who  made  them,  what  a  mastery 
Of  all  the  arts  has  your  omnipotence, 
To  have  created  such  a  symphony 
Of  sound  and  colour  ;  my  benumbed  sense 

55 


A  DROWSY  WINTER'S  DAY 

Dulls  ere  I  find  some  words  to  tell  of  it. 
Gone  are  the  mists  but  now  that  cast  a  gloom 
Over  the  land  and  the  belated  sun 
Shines  palely,  like  a  lamp  in  evening  lit 
While  still  some  daylight  strays  into  a  room 
Before  the  curtain's  drawn  and  tea's  begun. 

Palely  he  shines,  yet  touching  by  his  glow 
The  madder  birch-tops  with  a  tint  of  rose 
And  purple  shadows,  as  with  motion  slow 
The  branches  sway  where'er  the  light  wind 

blows, 

Marking  the  hollies  in  their  sombre  green 
(Clothed     midst      the     naked     boughs     of 

migthier  trees) 

Where  they  still  keep  the  soft  rain's  glisten- 
ing dew  ; 

Or  in  the  furze  that  bounds  the  old  bohreen 
Some  bolder  blossom  than  the  rest  he  sees, 
And  lights  this  tiny  speck  of  golden  hue. 

56 


FURZE 

YELLOWER— far— than     Meredith's 
yellow  picture, 

Golden  as  no  other  thing  is  golden  in 
the  earth, 

Ireland  is  golden  in  spring  and  early  summer:- 
Gold  is  winter's  deathbed,  gold  is  summer's 
birth. 

Big  beds  of  furze,  sheets  of  golden  blossom, 
Stretch   gently  sloping  on   every  mountain 

rise, 
Hedgerows  and  ditches  are   all   a   mass   of 

furze  bloom, 
Shining,  though  no  sunlight  gilds  our  opal 

skies. 


57 


Agvitsin. 


UA  t>uit  mop  AgAm  i  mo  CeAngA  tbutCAf  AC.  t)eip- 
eAnn  ff  gpeim  Ap  iomt>A  f.6Ap  t>e  mo  cineAt),  Agtif 
beip  eAnn  f  i  speim  opmf  A  Anoif.  UAim  im'  tfiACleiginn, 
f-Si'oip  liom  fgpiobAt),  50  mAll,  Ce^nA  p6m. 
fin  :  pe^p  t)ei(b  mbliATinA  piCexvo  •o'^oif  ^juf 
onoe  ^5  ceAgAfg  A  teAngA  m4tAft)-A  t)6.  O'n  tA  T>O- 
pugAt)  m6  DI  of  45  6ifceA6c  teif  An  mt)6AptA  Ap  gAC 
CAOO.  5°  "oeimin  if  Aluinn  An  ceAngA  An  t)6Af\lA, 
Aguf  CA  ctu  Ap  A  Licpi*eACc  Ap  puit)  An  T>omAin,  AC 
ni  h-6  ceAngA  mo  finnfe^p  6  ;  ni  f.iu  mo  CeAngA  f.6m 
e  Aguf  fAf  nAt)uptA  nA  tiAimf  ipe  inpte  ;  if  6Agcof  rhAit 

Ap    f-At)     ACA    An  Am     All     T)A    tBAngA.       Hi    f.«lA1p    T)Om 

f.o$luim  50  -ouAtbrhAp  Aguf  me  im'  peAp.  StigAnn 
leAnb  ceAngA  A  •outCAif  ifceAC  C6m  nAt)uptA  te 
bAinne  ciC  A  tiiAt^p  ;  if  gopc  mitpeAbtA  A 
cuipceAp  piAncA  Aip  50  pupAf. 

ponnAnn  gAC  (SipeAnnAc  f.em  gup  b'i  An 
A  teAngA  •ouCCAfAC.  CuipeAnn  An  pipmne  feo  AtAf 
m6p  Aip-feAn,  Aguf  AifcuipeAnn  ceine  A  AtAif  Aip 
poinnc  -o'eAfbAt)  A  AOife  leinb.  pionnAnn  -ouine  An 
f-fpmne  feo  t)e  ppeib,  -oume  eite  i  n-oiAit)  A  C6ite  ;  AC 
if  iomt)A  peAp,  Aguf  beAn,  teif,  A  Aimfi§  i,  Ag«f 
jeibeAnn  -ouine  6igm  A  oi£peA<ic  JAC  tnte  IA  f.6m. 
CA  An  5^et)il5e  Ag  f  leAttmugA-o  Af  An  n 

An  dAilteArhAinc  optA  f.6  mAp 

59 


CAitteAtfiAinc  nA  h6ige  Aguf  nA  bpeAgtACcA  Ap  tfmAOi 
—  niof  tuAice  OfitA  'nA  Ap  5Ae*1l>  XXtbAn  nA  AJA  nA 
t)fteAcnACAib,  6ij\  inf  nA  ciojxtAib  fin  ni  nAijte  teif  nA 
uAifte  A  -oce-AnsA  p6m  t)o  t^t5Ai|\c.  AC  itif  An 
t>!onn  An  Cxiinnc  A  tti 
pip  i  n-Aice  ceAngAt) 

l)ionn  An  ^Aetiitge  T)'AClof  Anoif  1  n-iomt)A 
fitpt)e.     t)ionn  fi  Ag  tiA  mACAitH,ei$inn  1 

Ap  ni  nAriiAHo  nA  1i6i|\eAnn  luCc  An 
fin  50  I6if\,  f.6  mAp  if  T>OI$  te  T)AOiniti  feijin. 
tDionn  An  5Ae'6ll'5e  A5  <ooif\fe6if.,  Ag  fAOf,  AS  ceA|\- 
•ouit>e,  AS  f.iu  n 


1  mt)Aite  AtA  CliAt  gniT)  Of  cionn 
lion-cige  obAi^  rh6p  -Aguf  IAD  Ag  cAttAifc  A|\  nA  leAn- 

bAlb     5Ae*ll'5e     "°°     tAbAlpC    Af    T)CU1f     AgUf 

•o'f.O5liiim  'n-A  TiiAit)    fin.     CA  bAjiArhAil  An 


An    5Ae*lL5e»  c6   5°   tribemff  f6m  |\o-AOfCA 
n<3  fd-teifgeAriiAil  Cun  i  ^ogluim.     Cim  6  i  rnbuit)eAn 

tlA  CAtfVdC  AgUf  1AT)f  An  Ag  CUf  Ainm  5Aet)6AlA6  A|\  nA 

ff.4iT)eA<5Aib  ;  T)Atui5teAj\  cf.ut  5Ae*eAl-A<::  nA  n-Ainm 
Ap  ^uinnedgAib  nA  fiopAi  Aguf  Af  CAipcib  ;  bei^iT) 
p^ip^AptA  nuAitieACcA  leAtAnAig  JAetnlge,  Aguf  ni 
put^iji  -DO  f  gotAijiiti  nA  hOltf  goile  tl^lif  iunt)A  i 
tttA  bionn  bAfiAttiAil  An  nAifiuin  mAllbionn  fi 

50  -oeirfiin  CA  tDpi  CuAlAnn  C6m  lAn  -oe 
te  hAon  AIC  1  n^ipinn.     t)iof  Ann  te  "DenbeAnnAige  ;  "DO 
im'  Coinnib  Aguf  mife  Ag  fiubAt  A|\ 

60 


An  T>cpAij;.  1f  i  n^Ae-dlge  ATDU&AIHC  AOinne  "  'm 
p^jvoun  ASAC  "  Aguf  if  5Aet>ilse  A  DiOT>Ap  AS  lAbAipc 
Aguf  iAt>f  An  AS  t>6AnArii  f  usjtAt)  Aguf  A'  5tAOt>AC  AP 
A  Ceile.  1f  *o6i§  Horn  gup  Annfo  ACA  gipim  An  f\ot>A. 
1T14  ^ogtuimeOCAiT)  nA  pAif  ci  Agup  lA-opAn  65,  bei-6  An 
jjAe-tJitge  Ag  A  bpAifCit)  p6m  Ap  n6f  cAinncefiip 

DUtCAfAC.       Til    tteA-6    An    ^1Opt>lAf   ACA,    AC    t)A   fAOpA- 

it)i§e  A  tiocpAt)  An  CAinnc  CUCA,  Aguf  tAttpCCAi-oif  An 

AgUf   1AT»f  An   Ag    f\At>    nA   |\UT)Ai    ACA  1OnnCA 

peit)ip  teif  nA  pAifCib  p6m  Af  -oceAnsA  -oo 
UA  fuit  AgAinn  50  mbeit)  6ipe  1  n-A  cip  t>A- 
T)e  ttApp  An  tD6AplA  teAn|?ArnuiT)  Af  ^|\ 
Agup  Af\  ^p  5CAiT)|\eAtfi  teif  An  gcuit)  eite 
•oe'n  -ooriiAn  :  cotneA'opAmtii'o  An  5^et)it5e  •o'Af'ocein- 
ceAnAit>  Aguf  -ouinn  pem.  SAOjtpAit)  An  t)6AftA  finn 
6  beit  oiteAnAC  ;  f  AO^pAit)  An  ^AetHlge  finn  6  Ceit 


UA  nA  t)AncA  inf  An  leAbAp  fo  6ifeAnnAC,  AC  ni'l 
fiA-o  ^AetieAtAC  :  ni  n-6  mo  Coil  AC  mo  CpAnn  50 
opiul  fAn 


FOOTNOTE  * 

LIKE  so  many  others  of  my  race  I  have  become  obsessed 
by  my  ignorance  of  what  should  be  my  native  language. 
It  has  gripped  me,  and  so  I  am  a  learner  :  am  already  able 
to  write  haltingly.  But  think  what  it  means  to  be  taught 
your  mother  tongue  when  for  thirty  years  your  com- 
panions have  spoken  around  you  none  but  a  tongue 
which,  however  beautiful  in  itself,  however  glorious  the 
literature  it  has  produced,  is  not  the  language  of  your 
forefathers,  is  not  even  a  modern  modification  of  it,  but 
one  whose  very  essence  and  genius  is  completely  strange 
to  it ;  to  learn  laboriously  as  a  man  what  should  be 
absorbed  as  a  child,  when  the  mind  is  still  an  unbroken 
field  and  the  whole  being  is  receptive  and  impressionable 
as  it  can  never  be  again. 

Yet  something  of  what  is  lost  by  this  is  regained  in  the 

enthusiasm  which  pervades  each  Irishman  when  he  makes 

the  discovery  for  himself  that  Gaelic  is  the  native  tongue 

of  Ireland.     To  some  the  discovery  comes  suddenly,  to 

some  gradually,  but  many  have  made  it  and  many  are 

making  it  daily.     As  Gaelic  dies  out  in  the  Gaeltacht,  and 

dies  there  faster  than  it  dies  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland 

*  Translation  of 

62 


FOOTNOTE 

or  the  other  branch  of  the  Celtic  tongue  dies  in  Wales, 
because  our  Irish  upper  classes  are  dead  as  such,  in  the 
Gaultacht  it  is  reviving  and  again  lifting  its  once  despised 
head  beside  its  foreign  conqueror.  In  unexpected  places 
you  will  meet  the  Gaelic  now :  students  there  are  in 
Trinity  College  who  have  it  (an  institution  erroneously 
but  not  altogether  unnaturally  believed  by  many  Irish- 
men to  be  anti-Irish)  ;  you  will  meet  a  porter  on  a  Dublin 
railway  station,  a  barber's  assistant,  a  shoemaker,  even  a 
policeman  who  has  it ;  it  is  spoken  at  ceilidhs  at  night 
where  Gaels  foregather ;  the  superhuman  effort  has  even 
been  made  and  accomplished  by,  I  believe,  over  thirty 
families  in  Dublin  of  bringing  up  their  children  in  their 
infancy  in  the  Irish  language  only,  without  a  word  of 
English.  Everywhere  I  see  evidences  that  the  Irish  public 
(even  if  it  has  not  the  youth  or  energy  in  most  cases  to 
carry  out  its  belief  to  its  logical  conclusions)  is  beginning  to 
feel  that  Gaelic  ought  to  be  the  national  language.  Why 
else  do  we  have  a  corporation,  not  very  many  of  whose 
members  are  bilingual,  posting  the  names  of  the  streets 
in  Gaelic ;  shopkeepers  painting  the  Gaelic  form  of  their 
names  on  window  and  van ;  newspapers  with  their  Gaelic 
columns  ;  Gaelic  a  compulsory  subject  in  the  new  National 
University  F  When  public  opinion  is  slow  it  is  generally 
powerful. 

I  was  in  Bray  recently,  surely  as  anglicized  a  place  as 

63 


FOOTNOTE 

there  is  to  be  found  In  Ireland,  and  as  I  was  walking  along 
the  esplanade  a  number  of  small  children  ran  into  me  : 
"  'm  p-Ajvoun  AgAC,"  said  one  to  me,  and  they  ran  off 
playing,  and  shouting  to  one  another  not  in  English  but 
in  Irish.  Here  it  seems  to  me  is  the  gist  of  the  whole 
matter.  If  the  children  learn  the  language  when  they 
are  young,  their  children  in  turn  will  acquire  it  naturally 
as  native  speakers  acquire  it,  if  not  with  tne  true  native 
speaker's  btdf,  at  least  with  the  fluency  that  will  make 
it  their  natural  language  of  self-expression,  and  we  shall 
have  attained  our  ideal — which  is  to  be  a  bilingual  nation, 
keeping  English  as  the  language  of  commerce  and  inter- 
course with  the  outer  world,  and  Irish  as  the  language  of 
our  homes  and  our  national  life.  English  will  save  us 
from  being  insular,  Irish  from  being  provincial. 

The  foregoing  verses  are  of  Ireland,  but  they  are  not 
Gaelic  :  it  was  my  fate,  not  I,  decided  that. 


